


Mountain and Memory

by methylviolet10b



Series: October Spooktacular Prompt Fics 2020 [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Bad Weather, Great Hiatus, M/M, Memories, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27131210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: Alone on a mountainside, Holmes is haunted by more than bad weather.  Written for prompt #3 of the October Spooktacular on Watson's Woes.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor
Series: October Spooktacular Prompt Fics 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1958713
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	Mountain and Memory

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Горы и воспоминания](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27468442) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> Warnings: Quotes from two ACD works. Random speculation. Not much plot. And written in a huge rush. You have been warned.
> 
> Prompt: "Of all ghosts the ghosts of our old lovers are the worst."

It had been days since I had last slept. My body cried out for rest, for food, for warmth, in strident tones that even I could not ignore. What I had was a half-ruined barn high in the mountains and a moldering pile of hay in which to try and shelter for the night from the worsening storm. A flimsy shield indeed, both from weather and from possible pursuit.

Sleep was too dangerous. I gnawed the lump of hard cheese I had procured before my most recent flight and drank a little water from my flask. My meagre meal finished, I burrowed into the hay as best I could in hopes of some additional warmth and concealment, should it be necessary.

I was almost certain I had shaken off my pursuit, but there was nothing I could do about the weather except wait it out and hope to see the morning.

Night fell, the blackness nearly total. I sat alone in the dark, fighting to stay awake, stay alive.

“ _From you I shall have no secrets._ ”

Did I hear the voice, or just hallucinate it? Logic dictated the latter, but that did not stop my brain from conjuring Victor’s face before my mind’s eye. His eyes bored into mine, drowning in grief and confusion, reaching out to me in desperate hope and naïve trust. I did not know all his father’s secrets, it was true. His mistake was believing I had not seen his.

_I already know your secrets_ , I thought then, and repeated again to the memory of the face haunting me. _I knew even then you would leave me behind._

He had. He did.

I shook my head, dispelling the vision. I huddled further into the depths of my inadequate coat and clenched my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering.

Another face swam before me in the darkness.

_“You use me, but you do not trust me.”_

For all that he did not observe many things, Watson sometimes saw me far too clearly, more clearly than anyone not named Holmes. The pain on his face, the despair and anger in his voice, shook me to the core now just as thoroughly as it had done then.

_My dear, you were right and you were wrong. We used each other in equal exchange more often than not. That was not your sin, or mine, but a gift we gave each other gladly. I did not trust us – myself not least – and it was that imbalance your noble soul sensed and rebelled against._

_My Watson. My dear Watson. I said it a thousand times, and yet you never truly understood._

Watson’s face changed from the memory I had of him on the moor to an entirely different expression, at once deadly serious, slightly exasperated, and immensely fond.

_“Just come home, Holmes. Stay alive and come home to me. We both have much to understand.”_

I blinked, and the vision vanished. A faint light reached my eyes. The storm had passed, and the first faint glimmer of false dawn lightened the sky through the gaps in the barn.

I had survived the night.

As I stirred my half-frozen limbs and did my best to extricate myself from the hay, I tried to recall if Watson had ever spoken any such words to me. I could not remember or even imagine an occasion where he would have said such a thing.

The faintest sound echoed in my ears. No words, just a nearly soundless huff I would recognize anywhere. I could almost taste the tang of Ship’s in the musty air.

I had not smelled that particular tobacco in over two years.

I felt every hair on the back of my arms rise, and it was not with cold. A shudder passed through my frame.

Home.

It was an impossibility as always, but somehow it did not feel quite so far away in that moment.

I took a deep breath and focused my mind once again. Mycroft had papers and another new identity waiting for me in Montpellier. All I had to do was get there, and I might find respite for a time.

But first I had to get off the mountain.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted October 20, 2020.


End file.
